


eyes filled with want (heart filled with love)

by forestpenguin



Series: the moment flowers bloom [1]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Childhood Memories, F/M, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Mild Hurt/Comfort, POV Cassian Andor, POV Jyn Erso, Parent-Child Relationship, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-05-18 06:16:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14847347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forestpenguin/pseuds/forestpenguin
Summary: They swear they don't know what gentleness is. Their hands are calloused, skin scarred, and their fingers only know to swipe and slice and strike - not caress, comfort, care. It doesn't matter, anyways. In a harsh galaxy, such softness is a weakness.They are wrong.In a cruel galaxy, small acts of kindness are grand acts of rebellion.It is softness that keeps them alive.(for tumblr appreciation events)





	1. in the soundless night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for @celebraterogueone jyn week, day 3: past & future

Papa's hands are cold. Her fingers are tiny enough they can only grasp three of his fingers. Still, he gently leads the way.

"Yes, Stardust. Just like that. One-two-three; one-two-three; atta girl-"

Jyn will never recall the song playing faintly in the background, but one day the three step dance will be coaxed out of her by a partner. The steps will come naturally to her and she will dance so fluidly she'll surprise herself.

Now, though, she stumbles over her chubby toddler legs. Arms outstretched, she teeters towards the apocalypse. The disaster is stayed by Galen's shins - her hands find home there, grappling his legs until he swoops down to take her by the waist. Galen lets out a slight chuckle under his breath as soon as the moment of terror is over and he's helped steady her feet.

"She's already a better dance partner than you are, Galen."

Her mother watches them from the couch, a glass in one hand and another resting on the arm rest. The joke teases the corners of her lips.

Even relaxed, her back is ramrod straight. With her chin raised high Lyra completes the perfect image of the high society Coruscant holds near and dear. On closer inspection, though, cracks in that image become clear. Dark soil is permanently caked under her unpainted fingernails; scrapes along her arms are ghostly reminders of near misses on expeditions; her brown hair is carelessly tucked away in a messy bun; and the practical shoes on her feet add a final, rebellious touch.

Exhaustion persistently lingers around her eyes, but they shine brightly when Lyra smiles at her daughter's upturned face.

"When you're old enough I'll dance with you instead of your father. He's no fun."

Galen grins, hoisting Jyn up against his chest.

"All the better. I'd rather not attend those..." he frowns.

"Galas. Imperial galas," Lyra finishes, without hiding her disdain.

Jyn is paying no attention to the words coming out of her Papa's mouth nor the neglected classical music. She's peering at him closely, memorizing the way his silvery blond hair glints in the light of the kitchen and the exact pattern of the crinkles around his eyes. When his gaze returns to hers she offers him a broad smile, kicking her feet against his chest until he leans forward and presses his forehead to hers.

"Shall we start from the beginning?"

* * *

Jyn's impression of Saw - just Saw, no Uncle or Mister or Sir before or after - is limited to her view of his knees. She's already memorized the pattern of mud on his boots and the angle of the blaster sitting in his holster. He carries himself with grace, without the forced, rigid bearing of a stormtrooper. Assurance and experience give his aura weight but his shoulders slump forward with old grief.

The beings rallying around him wear their own scars with pride. Permanent scowls mark their faces just as their skin is marked by remnants of previous battles. They are no less frightening than their impassive leader. Some leer down at Jyn, only seeing a frightened Human youngling. Others don't spare a second glance at the latest addition to their crew.

Jyn finds herself in a state of muted terror. Where her mother's inner strength was shrouded with softness, here they all bare their skill sets without hesitation. They brandish their weapons openly, things she doesn't yet have names for dangling from belts and straps.

She's unsettled by the intermittent barks of laughter echoing down the hallway into the storage room that's masquerading as her bedroom. She's overwhelmed by how crowded she feels in the small room, having gotten used to only having Saw for company these past few days. A stray sob wrangles itself free from her chest and she clamps her hands over her mouth.  
Jyn is no stranger to small spaces or alone time. She's used to her cramped homestead and the private time bestowed upon only children. Until mere days ago the wide expanse of Lah'mu seemed to be her playground. Then she'd felt as though she'd had the entire galaxy to herself.

The tears flow freely at the reminder of her former home and all she has left behind. Her beloved toys, her favourite hiding spots -  
and, of course, her parents.

Jyn now knows those freedoms she'd once thought nothing of will be lost to her forever. The only question that remains is whether Saw will give her any.

She must've let out a whimper for now the door to the only private space on the ship creaks open.

"May I?"

When she doesn't protest the door widens further, the light of the hallway illuminating the silhouette of the man who'd rescued her. Saw approaches her bed slowly, the gentle tapping of his cane resembling the soft splashing of rain on her bedroom window.

Jyn lurches up immediately, bedsheets rustling as she moves to scramble out of her bed. Her hand is already reaching for her boots when Saw shakes his head, motioning for her to stay put.

To her surprise the older man kneels beside her bed. Her eyes flicker to his and she's startled by the soft sadness in his gaze.

"Are you scared, child?"

She wants to say no.

She should say no.

A yes in the form of a nod slips out instead.

"What are you scared of?"

His face is close enough that a mere twitch from her will give a lie away. Saw's kept back far enough for her to not feel pressured, so she honestly thinks about her response.

She suddenly notices that the man himself doesn't scare her at all. She recognizes the lines on his face from Papa's - the mournful look pulling his lips into a permanent frown echoes the expression Mama wore when she thought nobody was looking.

What is she scared of?

Mama is dead. Papa - she hopes otherwise, but she doesn't think she'll see Papa ever again, or else would he have let Saw take her?

"Being left behind," she works up the nerve to say. "Everyone here is so big and strong and I-"

Jyn sniffles. The lonely hours she'd spent under the hatch spring back to mind. She would do anything Saw asked of her as long as she'd never have to relieve that desperation. She'd learn to fight, be big and strong like the people he surrounded himself with.

The corner of Saw's mouth twitches as if he'd read her thoughts.

She wonders if he'd been expecting something else - something tangible like monsters in the dark or troopers clad in black, something she'd managed to outgrow overnight.

Something he could teach her to fight.

Not something that relies on trust.

"I appreciate your honesty, child." Saw replies slowly, a thoughtful expression on his face. His gaze flickers to her hand that's clutching her bedsheets. He covers it with his own, and Jyn loosens her grip. His hand dwarfs hers and she can feel the calluses of a fighter, the patterns she'll know intimately and learn to recognize once they form on her own palms. "No matter what happens, remember I'll always be with you."

"Always?" she asks, voice rising.

"If not in person, in spirit," he replies smoothly, squeezing her hand as he does so. "I will be with you in whatever keeps you alive. I promise."

Jyn nods once and one of her braids slips over her shoulder. He gently tucks it back and in hushed tones, whispers for her to sleep. She watches him step out before closing her eyes, unaware that Saw will wait behind the doorframe until her breathing evens out.

* * *

Jyn didn't know it was possible for a single sentient to have so many wrinkles. Tocoyans, Dressillites, and a handful of other species are born with folded skin. The woman standing before her is none of these. She has earned each and every one of the lines that frame her indigo hued features. Old age and experience have gifted her the wrinkles that litter her arms as she extends a hand. 

She's seen better days. Jyn has nothing in common with the palm readers that exchange fates for credits but she knows the elderly woman before her has seen the heyday of the Republic. Lived to see it rot from the inside, crumble as it fell in the Clone Wars that paved the way to the rise of the glorious Empire. A marvel such as the elderly seems out of place here, where children's bellies are swollen from famine and families are torn apart by stormtroopers.

Just some days ago a little boy more bones than flesh had collapsed on Jyn's path. She hadn't given a second thought before handing him the last scraps of food she'd been saving for herself.

Which leads Jyn to her current situation. Slouched against the wall of a street corner, willing herself to get up and move. Absolutely helpless as a passing stranger stops to stare at her.

Jyn's gone hungry before.

Saw's voice reminds her that Humans can live for weeks without nourishment. "Water, shelter, then food. Safety before all else - never trust a stranger, event he kind ones. They usually want something in return."

The reminder doesn't help sate her hunger.

"Hungry, are you, kit?"

Wary green eyes meet clouded grey ones.

Jyn's brain screams for her to leave but her stomach twists and locks her feet in place.

"Mhm, jus as I suspected... Yer a kit that startles easily, huh. A wild little one, aren't-cha? You won't be taking any food I offer, will ya?"

"No, thank you," Jyn replies softly. She rises with shaky feet, back pressed against the wall. The rush of blood makes her head spin, and she tries to be subtle about the way she grasps at a nearby ledge for support.

The woman clicks her tongue. "That'll do you no good. Here-"

The old woman takes her hand and Jyn does her best not to flinch, at once fearful of hurting the old woman and terrified for her own safety.

"Oh, you, I'm stronger than I look. I used to be a fighter like you once. Don't look at me like that! You know I'm tellin' the truth. Only fighters walk around places like these," she says, and juts her chin out in Jyn's general direction. "Now take 'em."

Jyn looks at the credits pressed into her palm and fights down a loud gasp. It's easily enough for a couple days of food - even transport off planet.

"I can't possibly," she breathes. There is no way Jyn can repay her. She has nothing but the clothes on her back. And, she thinks grimly, a few things she needs to live.

"You must, kit," the woman replies. "For allo' us," she adds cryptically.

Jyn opens her mouth to ask her what she sees in a starving orphan, but the elderly woman strides off before the words form.

* * *

Jyn struggles to keep her eyes open.

She's not sure why she bothers to look anyways. Her head is too heavy.

When her vision does come back into focus she only sees her feet being dragged along the splotchy duracrete. The fiery pain in her shoulders has faded to the dull ache of restrains fastened behind her back.

She's lethargic enough she doesn't mind being pushed around. They're rough with her, jostling her far more than is efficient - not that they had been either gentle or conservative beforehand. She is their newest plaything, fresh meat too exhausted to bite back.

Jyn should be focused on her surroundings. She should be looking for a potential escape route or a familiar face. Instead her senses are closed to everything but the dull thud of her heart, the only reminder that she is still alive. She should be trying to escape - not to freedom, not with the Empire's iron fist, but to somewhere where she can hide.

There's not enough of her left to care.

She tired of fighting long ago, she'd tired of running soon after. Now she's too tired to even hide. One of the troopers pulling at her chains barks an order that falls on deaf ears. It's followed by an insult and a swift kick, to which she summons the remainder of her strength to spit on someone's feet. The residue is tinted red, much like her vision.

Jyn is keenly aware that soon, everything will be over.

The question is how soon.

Wobani's labour camp isn't known for extending people's lifespans, anyways.

It's almost a relief.

She's almost home.

Jyn also knows her last days will be difficult. Not the hardest, though. She'll have a source of food and a roof above her head, small luxuries she'd lost to time.

Safety, however, remains elusive. Already she can feel eyes burning through her clothes, staring at her bruised and bleeding form. She curses herself for being too broken to glare back. That pompous Imperial prick wanted to make a show of her, so be it. She'll be done with them all soon enough.

The stormtroopers leading her down the corridor shove her into a room and she stumbles, much to their amusement. She doesn't fall, catching herself as her boot hits the ground with a loud thunk.

The door slides shut behind her and Jyn takes a moment to regain her bearings.

"Weapons to declare?"

She doesn't have any. They'd all been taken by the trooper whose hands had lingered on her clothing far too long, who'd yanked away the blade tucked neatly away in her boot with a smirk.

The officer should know this, but nudges a collection bucket across the durasteel table. Jyn raises her gaze from the grimy, formerly white duraplast to stare at the bored officer. A small ripple of relief flows through her when she realizes her only company is a human female - though in a facility like this, Jyn knows she has no friends.

"I have none. Are you going to search me?'

"You want me to?"

When Jyn's mouth flares up into a scowl the officer throws her head back with a laugh. "Don't worry girlie, I know the boys have already patted you down. I only needa do a quick check."

Jyn bristles at the comment but can't help but notice something else rankling under the other woman's demeanor. Her fingers are light. She starts at the laces of Jyn's worn out boots, brushing over her pants, and rifling through her pockets. She's more thorough than the male trooper, checking places he hadn't and even confiscating some extra hair pins Jyn forgot she had. She's quick, though, so it's only when her palms skim over her shoulders that fear blossoms in Jyn's heart.

Her necklace.

Mama's necklace.

A plan splutters to life and dies as soon as the familiar black cord snags around the officer's finger. Her eyes narrow.  
"What's this? Hidden wire?"

She tugs at it and Jyn is helpless. Her heart pounds and she tries to keep her cool. She could fight back but the cord might snap in the struggle - or worse, it could be taken away.

Jyn thought she had already lost everything except her life and a few scraps of decency but of course;  
of course she'd forgotten about the kyber.

The officer pulls out the pendant from underneath her collar.

"Oh, a trinket?"

She leans closer to inspect it and Jyn can smell old alcohol clinging to her breath.

Nobody who had touched the pendant had gotten away unharmed. Once a younger fellow in Saw's cadre had lunged for it for leverage in a losing battle. She'd grabbed them by the wrist and broke their arm. They were relegated to kitchen duty for a solid week. Jyn remembers expecting a reprimand from Saw afterwards, but the only thing she received was a mournful look and a pile of rank outerwear pulled off victims that needed to be washed and mended before nightfall. Another time it had slipped out of the shirt she'd been wearing, the collar meant for someone older and well-fed. It'd piqued the attention of sleazy eyes with sleazier hands. Jyn had stomped on his foot, elbowed his gut, and sent him crashing face first to the duracrete. She'd ran off before she could learn what colour in which he bled.

The kyber faintly glows in the dull fluorescent light of the inspection room. The officer hasn't touched the pendant itself, only pinched the cord between her fingers.

"Isn't worth much, is it girlie?"

Jyn stares at her, unsure how to respond. Would honesty set her free? Did it matter?

The officer sighs and leans away from her.

"Must be worth sumthin' to you, though." She drops the cord, watching the pendant swing on Jyn's neck. Thinking better of it, she tucks it back under her shirt. Her fingers are cold on Jyn's skin and the sensation startles her out of shock. "Keep it outta sight. One of these leeches will take it - or strangle you with it, and wouldn't that be a darn shame?"

Jyn's response is to blink, dumbfounded.

It's only when she's escorted out of the room by two stormtroopers that she realizes she hadn't said thanks.

That night, in her cell as her cellmate snores, she pulls out the forgotten pendant and holds it in her fist.

* * *

Jyn claims not to know gentleness. She slams her rescuer over the head with a shovel, glares at her keeper with daggers for eyes.

She claims to not know healing - she only knows how to hurt. Armour crunches under her truncheons and later she falls to her knees before the holoprojector, tears falling freely as the rain around her.

She claims not to know kindness. She scoops a child out of blasterfire only for her to die hours later; she squeezes Chirrut's hand before guiding him to a suicide mission. She shields Cassian from the worst of Scarif, taking on the final burden of responsibility and letting her eyes sting. 

Perhaps she is wrong. 


	2. the sole one awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for @celebraterogueone cassian week day 1: family

 

The sudden chill of cold fingers is a welcome relief on Cassian's clammy skin. He grasps at the frayed edge of his worn blanket, fumbling as he tries to pull it up to his shoulders. The blanket snags under his mamá's knee, rendering his efforts futile.

Cassian struggles to free himself from the pillow under his head, trying to peer up at mamá's face. His neck aches and gives out, so he only manages to glimpse mama's eyebrows knitted together in concern. Her lips purse briefly as she gauges the severity of his fever.

Her eyes flicker briefly to his and she quickly dons a smile when she notices the pair of curious eyes watching her.

"You'll be playing outside in no time," she says, pulling her hand away from his forehead.  
  
Cassian shrinks away from the cold air that's filled the gap where mamá was crouched over him. Instinctively cluing into his discomfort, she pulls the cozy blanket up to his chin. Her hands linger by his face, thumbs caressing his cheeks. He offers her a wan smile which softens mamá's forced one into something genuine. Gently, she brushes damp hair off his forehead, tucking them aside with a tender look in her eyes.

"How are you feeling?" she murmurs.

Cassian sniffles and turns his attention to the spotty shadows dancing on the wall behind his mamá. Based on the hazy nature of the little light escaping the grasp of the drawn covers he guesses he's been bedridden for a day. His legs ache so badly it feels much longer.  
  
The shadows of the snow swirling outside seem to beckon for him.  
  
He wants to heed the call of the wind shouting his name like the neighbourhood children. Cassian longs to whip off his blankets and let the icy embrace of Fest cool his too-hot body. Yet even the slight draft from his mother shifting on the edge of his bed sends a shiver wracking through his tiny frame.

"Cassi?"

 _I'm good!_ is the cheerful response on the tip of his tongue but his face contorts with the effort of speaking. Cassian wishes to be better, if not to play but just to ease the mamá's worry - to alleviate the burden he's become off her shoulders. He's a little boy, as mama puts it, but he's smart enough to know she does more than any of the mamas in the whole neighbourhood. She raises him singlehandedly while cooking for more than two and caring for more than one. The only time Cassian has ever seen a stormtrooper up close was when mamá spoke in their language to help the other mamá who'd lost her husband. Cassian can't remember if they ever found him.

His attention turns back to mamá. The fever's grip on him is tight and his attempts at speaking are choked out by a faint whimper. The sound elicits a sympathetic hum from her.

"I'm here," she murmurs, on the cusp of cooing. Cassian doesn't have the strength to protest at being babied and instead sinks into the comfort of her warmth. "I'm right here. I'm right here, querido, I'm not going anywhere."  
  
Cassian fidgets under the sheets, wanting to reply and wishing he could wish the fever away. He tries to communicate with his eyes, gazing plaintively at his mother. _I'm sorry and I hate being like this._

Loose, black curls gently brush the pillow as she leans down to press her lips to Cassian's blazing forehead.

His eyes flutter shut, lashes dark against flushed skin. The action tempts sleep to return, and Cassian finds himself too drowsy to open his eyes. He's faintly aware of the press of lips on his cheek. Even as his consciousness fades he can still hear her murmur loving words of soft encouragement, of promises that will ring true as long as she lives.

* * *

  
By the time Cassian realizes he's cold he's already shivering. The drafty ship's chill seeps through the layers of loaned clothing hanging loosely from his slight frame. The dull cold sinks slowly into his bones, unlike the sharply bitter temperatures of Fest that strike without hesitation. The sensation is as unfamiliar to him as the rest of the small ship.

The few HoloNet dramas he's seen spin tales of children who dream of flying, that eventually take off into the starry galaxy to chase the thrill of adventure. Cassian never saw himself in them. To his wry amusement elders began to proclaim Cassian's spirit was older than their own; a weary creature rebirthed to burden the wrongs of the galaxy. It still doesn't make sense - hadn't he simply been content with his life? His mamá, his papá, and the prospect of a new addition?

The offworlders and their false-white helmets had swept away his happiness with one swift blow. Now Cassian is on an adventure he never sought out.

There was a time he would've given into the hum of the engine and roamed the ship, inspecting every nook and cranny for hidden treasures. Cassian would've burned the schematics in his memory; attempted to take it apart and reassemble it in his mind. He'd have scouted out recessed panels and popped the open to peer at the innards before anyone could notices. Perhaps, if he had a datapad, he might've hooked up to the mainframe and started to chat with the central computer. Maybe even started a game that he was bound to lose - after all, the lines and toggles of this ship scream of an era unseen by the Republic castaways left on Fest.

The only other time he'd been on a ship Cassian was still firmly on the planetary surface - part of a gaggle of children discovering the remains of something sinister. As the youngest he trailed in their wake. They'd scrambled over the insides like iceflies on discarded meat. Caught in the hustle, Cassian had slipped into a hidden corner and found himself face to face with the forgotten helmet of a clone trooper. Startled by the fearsome visage, he'd burst into tears that flowed until mamá found out. She'd rescued him from the temporary nightmare, soothing him with tales of the faraway worlds she'd seen in an attempt to distract him from his fears.

Now Cassian finds himself having to wipe his tears himself.

This nightmare will not end.  
  
The back of his hand is dotted with tears, their sticky wetness still hot on his cheeks. The distorted reflection staring back at him from the canister of water sitting on the table plainly displays the bright, stuffy redness of his nose. His eyelashes aren't used to bearing this burden for so long, without words to soothe him. His tear ducts should be empty by now yet his lower lip quivers, trembling as if to send a cry spilling out.

Cassian chokes back a whimper and sets his face in his hands. He focuses on his breathing, just like he'd been taught. _In, out, in, out._ He peeks through the gaps between his fingers at the scratches criss-crossing the durasteel table.

_In, out, in, out._

Nothing is permanent. _We do not fear Death on Fest._ He'll eventually stop crying - he has to. He will. When he does - when he does, he'll gather up all his nerve and stand as straight and tall as he can. He'll collect the best of his Basic on the tip of his tongue and he will ask -

he will ask -

he will demand -

he will hope -

_"Tendré esperanza."_

He will fight.

The stones he'd thrown, the bottles he'd smashed, the scraps of neatly folded flimsi bearing coded messages he'd carefully tucked into his boots, the droids he'd rewired, and the locks he'd sliced through - everything that once was so vital is now ashes slipping through his grasp. None of it was enough.

He needs to do more, learn more - be stronger and fight harder so he can push back. Maybe then, just maybe, everything will stop.

Cassian won't ever see his mamá or papá again, but perhaps -

Perhaps in the end, he might.

"You need to eat, little one."

The Core-accented Basic startles Cassian out of his thoughts.

Only when he lifts his face from his hands does Cassian notice the bowl set before him on the table. Steam curls up from its still bubbling surface. It's a thick golden brown concoction, filled with vegetables he can't identify bobbing in the swirling liquid. The scents that reach him are foreign, but the hunger left by crying silently pays no heed to unfamiliarity.

Cassian warily tracks the movement of the deep orange hand that moves away from the bowl. He's well aware that thousands of species inhibit this galaxy as brethren, but in the few hours he's been off his birth planet he's met more non humans than he's ever heard of.  
  
The same hand moves to linger above his head, straying a respectful distance but hoping to offer some comfort. Cassian's gaze follows the line of her arm, dwelling on the young woman's earnest expression framed by striped lekku.

"I'll make sure you're safe," she says with a bright yet gentle smile. "I promise," she adds, offering him a spoon as she says so.

As Cassian gulps down the hot first spoonful, he's warmed by the thought of kindness lurking in even the scariest of places. The incessant promise of maybes cling to his heart and flutter in the air like the scent of the soup that slowly fills his empty stomach and colder heart.

When he musters the courage to gaze up at the woman in thanks, she gently presses a hand to his head - seeing for the first time, instead of desperation: hope.

* * *

Pain cuts - sears; white-hot; burning; blinding; bright.

No, not hot - a dull throbbing. Not all encompassing, just his head.

Dehydration? Upside down?

Something else - soreness, an ache rippling up from his tired feet. A blazing cut, a line of fire shooting down his right side, spilling over his ribs and ending at the junction between skin and cold durasteel.

He reaches - upwards, to touch his face. Slowly, Cassian makes sense of his surroundings. He is here, prone, on a bench. No restraints, no ropes, only the musty air of hyperspace. His shoulder flares up with pain: shouts for calm, screams for peace, and a groan slips out the corner of his mouth.

His fingers return without blood; but he feels rustle of bacta neatly fixed by gauze rubbing the skin under his shirt.

Blurred yellow light is smeared on the durasteel above him, giving the holsters and hooks and control panels a strange glow. The colour shifts to bright green.

"Wakefulness at 87.1% optimal levels."

A voice. Cold, blunt, clipped - welcome, familiar, a relief. A hint of humor amidst the factual drone of a droid. It shears through the fogginess of green and greyish white; black dotted with pinpricks of white stars -

"Hello, Cassian. How are you feeling?"

Cassian stirs, his head too heavy to regard the source of the voice. The source, the droid, his beloved companion: K2SO understands, and leans into his line of vision. Cassian's vision blurs and he blinks, refocusing his eyes until he can discern the individual lights that make up Kay's ocular receptors.

"Kay?" His voice cracks like thin ice crunching under his boots.

"Hello, Cassian. You acquired mild abrasions and a blaster wound resulting in blood loss. However, you successfully completed the objective. What do you remember last?"

Cassian blinks, squinting at the familiar battered torso of an Imperial security droid looming over him. There are streaks of something smudged on the cold, dark blue metal; a rusty reddish-brown.

_Blood loss._

_Objective._

The mission.

_The mission._

Cassian recalls the icy waters around his ankles and the luminescent indigo ripples he left in his wake. Their objective was to create a new alias on a planet with a burgeoning resistance, something Cracken thought was worth taking a closer look at. He remembers the briefings, the hours spent poring over culture and history -

"They-"

Everything swept away by a single misstep. He'd assumed his cover was safe, even from a group of wary thugs with stolen blasters. A local gang,playing the middle, not wanting to antagonize the Imperials, not wanting to sympathize with the people who'd ruined their way of life. They'd seen Cassian for who he really is - a frightened little boy playing war, something easily broken -

"They tossed me into the lake."

They'd seen him for who he was, another catalyst for an impending war: something they could stop by selling him to the Empire. They meant well, he thinks, but hadn't know how to tie a proper knot, hadn't realized that the boy knew how to swim.

It was the Imps that got him, though. The gangsters were probably dead, their bodies floating in their holy lake, outlined in the bright pink light of the organics who called those waters home. Cassian had escaped - dirty alleyways masked his scent, but he now remembers a blaster bolt set his lungs aflame, and the jacket he'd tied to stifle the blood.

The jacket is gone.

"I got - I got out, sent you everything I'd - I'd found, and then-" his voice cracks, throat parched.

He'd blacked out on the other side of a barricaded door. The Imperials would've only found his bled-out body, transmitter smashed so badly they would never figure out who sent him.

Except he hadn't died.

"How?" Cassian croaks.

"I carried you."

Kay says it simply, matter-of-fact like the driest of his jokes and the most serious of his calculations. Cassian doesn't remember any of it, doesn't comprehend it and it takes him several moments to even understand the meaning of what Kay's just said.

_I carried you._

The bloodstains on Kay's torso are his, and the only memory Cassian has is of a muggy dream of falling and rising, flying down snowbanks and seeing the world from his father's shoulders.

Kay didn't have to rescue him. He could've been left for dead.

Cassian had done just as much to others.

Cassian's gaze is pulled back to the droid at the sound of his servomotors whirring. "Your heart rate is increasing. Do you require any assistance?"

He smiles feebly. "I'd - I'd like - water, please."

Kay nods before leaving, and as Cassian watches him slip into the hold, the dull warmth in his chest fades into a flutter. Where had the droid learned kindness? He'd acquired several traits Cassian hadn't programmed into him - it's safe to say all Cassian did was disable Imperial protocols - and of all the self-preservation instinct was his strongest.

Certainly Kay hadn't learned compassion from Cassian. He's killed far more lives than he's saved. He couldn't risk saving someone on a whim, no matter how desperate and real and immediate their pain was. No matter how their faces would haunt his dreams, or how their hurt drains the life out of him. Kay had no reason to save him - Cassian had ensured the Rebellion recieved his information and erased any remaining links. Searching for him, Kay had risked his own well being.

Cassian can't say he would've done the same.

He would love to. It's hard to admit the affection he has for the droid - not for a lack of it, but fear that affection may be exploited. He doles it out in polite comments, something unusual for an organic master to gift his droid, but Cassian was raised to be polite even to the enemy and to be master to no one. Those around him won't raise an eyebrow at the the way he addresses Kay, and thus their friendship is safe.

Cassian isn't sure what he'd do without his companion. It's an odd realization - hadn't Cassian spent so many years on his own? But to finally gain someone, someone who met his sins with infallible logic, someone who would never bleed nor glare at him with hurt and betrayal - Cassian couldn't bear to lose him.

When Kay returns with water in hand, the thank you that Cassian strains to utter is for more than just the water.

* * *

He knows the quirks of every blaster he's ever come across; knows the hidden trapdoors to half a hundred security systems that only a slicer can slip through; can make conversation in eight languages and understand almost twice as many; is familiar with at least five Senators on a personal level, both as himself and as Joreth Sward; and on that note has more aliases than he can count on two hands with a reputation that precedes all of them; but for all the skills Cassian has the trick to attaining a good night's sleep escapes him.

Of all the things Cassian's mastered, he finds one skill the most useful:  
the art of falling apart silently.

The sky outside churns, laden with the deep blues of a late, cloudy sunset. Its hues leach into the air, smearing colours on the whites of the base to render them a mournful grey. Cassian shoves his seat forward, not letting it squeak as a group of chattering recruits squeeze past him on a detour towards the exit without giving him a second glance.

Fruit cores thunk into a waste bin, trays clatter as they precariously teeter on a table, feet shuffle as the flow of hungry rebels slows to a trickle.

The caf in Cassian's hands is as still as transparisteel and just as reflective. The light panels of the mess find themselves reflected in its surface, and if he took a sip Cassian would find the dark shades of his eyes captured in the drink itself. The caf is neglected in his grasp, though, serving its purpose not as a refreshment but as a hand warmer.

His eyes are on flecks of paint chipping off the wall his left shoulder rubs against, starting at the point where a chair may have bumped into its surface. Above him, a fan croaks as it spins. It coaxes the humid air into ruffling his hair, sending a chill down the collar of his leather jacket. Cassian's grip tightens. His palms are bright red from the heat but he presses closer, calloused hands almost impervious to pain. That will change soon, his hands are now too scarred to fit in with Sward's status. He absentmindedly draws circles on the mug with his thumb, fingers curling inwards so his nails click gently against it.

Cassian wants to dissolve right into the cup. The heat slowly warms his perpetually cold fingertips, nerves tingling as they burn alive. Perhaps the fire will spread through the hands he's used to kill, scorching through his veins until he melts away. Swirled into nonexistence by a phantom hand, forgotten and left to cool.

If only.

Cassian is neither sugar nor cream to be dissolved into caf. He's more like the mug itself - writhing and burning on the inside with an impeccable facade on the outside.

_"Staying won't help us. You'll doom us all - take this and run!"_

_She's spoken life to his thoughts, and time begins to slip from their grasp. Cassian turns to leave, swallowing down his fears, guilt, sorrow, before they lurch out of his mouth._

_He's stopped by a hand on his shoulder._

_"They'll understand. You're our only hope._ We know the lullaby. _Now go - and may the Force guide you!"_

Brown circles embellish his table's buffed surface. Rim stains, each left by an organic seeking the comforts of piping hot caf: wakefulness, warmth, but undoubtedly not taste. To dispel a headache - maybe a hangover - prepare for a mission, brace for a long patrol stint, or to recover. Each faded ring with its own story, some sticky with sugar, others lightened with cream, some smeared where the offender attempted to wipe it away. All inextricably intertwined with the tale of whoever was on mess duty and their failed attempts to scrub them off. Such insignificant marks, tiny pieces of the brilliant lives around him and just as fragile.

He begins to idly scratch at one such stain. Lines of white cut through the splatter, slowly erasing a part of that seat's history. _Scritch, scratch._ Who sat here before him? Why? Had it been the only spot left during crowded hours? Had they too found solace in the two walls that join at his back, feeling safe knowing any attackers can't creep up on them?

So many lives, so many stories. So vibrant and wonderful and easily forgotten - erased. _Scritch, scratch._

_The ship takes off, having left its organic baggage behind, only carrying what the rebels deem vital. A message and its carrier - isn't that what he'd always been?_

_Cassian makes a point of not watching the bright green lights of transponders shift to red before blinking out._ One, two, three. _He still remembers their voices._

_Not for much longer. The faces fade first, then the voices... then the names. Only the guilt remains._

So easily ended, or so one thinks. He's erased many lives, witnessing their final breaths through his scope. Others, not so directly, or so the elaborate yet meaningless vocabulary of his reports claim. The sin falls to him regardless. What right does he have to end a life? It's hardly his choice (oh, but it is, it's always his), he merely does whatever is required of him (but he can say no, can't he? he can't.)

Unless there's an alternative. But if Captain Cassian Andor, everyone's favourite agent (whether they know his real name or not, which they likely don't) can't find an alternative; if Jeronimo Andor's son, who'd grown up watching his father end conflicts with a single conversation, can't find a better way; if he can't justify a viable alternative _there is none._ Death is beyond his grasp and in his hands at the same time.

Cassian carries the unique burden of _the last hope._ Powerful, inspiring, the lifeblood of the Rebellion. Decieving, fleeting, the inexcusable traitor.

The rings are gone, his nails now etching unseen designs. The hardy blooms of Fest, petals curling inward; the outline of his A28, the trigger shakily turning into the features of -

Measured footsteps grow louder - a military man, one who served in the Republic before it fell. They fall evenly on the duracrete, heavy and slow and his title is on Cassian's tongue before Draven says his name.

"Cassian."

"Sir."

He can't recall the last time Draven's used his first name. It's always _Captain_ or _agent_ or occasionally _Andor._

"May I?"

Draven's hands are on the chair closest to Cassian's. He nods. It creaks as Draven settles into it. He doesn't seem to fit, as if a Wookie was perched in a plastic chair moulded for a Chadra-Fan. But it feels right, too. Draven is the only one, if any, who is privy to -

One might expect Draven to strike up a conversation. Cassian knows his superior is a man of few words. Some may say _harsh, blunt, indifferent._ Cassian might say _direct, clear, realistic._ Why waste time on flowery language when everyone in earshot knows what's really being said? (Honesty is true exoneration.) They're spooks who've neatly folded their conscience into standard military issue packages. The infant Alliance is still just that, an amalgamation of guerrillas all with the same goal, but the Intelligence retains the rigid expectations expected of the Empire's best.

They say it's to even the playing field but Cassian knows he'd have lost his mind in a silent cockpit or crowded hallway without the cold reasoning of mission reports. _Target, mark, completion, neutralized, deactivated._ He can fit his feelings around these words, carefully label them before tucking them away. Call him impassive, ice-hearted, but the alternative is to burn alive.

The chair squeaks again. Draven leans back in his seat.

They've all done the same things, this unity forged in war. Similar losses, similar heartbreak. Cassian is nothing special, just one of many _spies, assassins, saboteurs;_ so why should he alone break - why would he receive special attention?

Draven's fingers knit together as he clasps his hands on the table. A glass of untouched violet liquid sits before him, streaks of red identifying it as the dregs of a carton of blumfruit juice.

 _Chemvau._ The planet's name sours in Cassian's mouth like so many others. Draven doesn't ask. Those who know enough to ask know better than to do so. Some avoid his eyes, a shrinking few glance at him sadly. Cassian brushes it all off, preferring to seek out stony silence. No amount of _it's alright, you'll be okay, it was for a good cause, you did the right thing, they knew it was coming, they chose this life, I understand, it's okay, you had no choice_ can soothe him because he's heard it all and knows what is true.

 _Three agents neutralized. (I left them to die.)_  
_Operation otherwise a success. (There was no other way.)_

Draven heard the lack of a tremble in his voice when he delivered the report, and sees the unease with which he lays his palms flat against the table. Draven doesn't say anything because he knows, because he's sent so many agents that never returned, because he's refused to sign off on an extraction mission.

_We can't afford to lose any more._

That is the unspoken truth that hangs between them.

_We can't lose you, Cassian._

Because somehow the universe has conspired to make Cassian's wretched life worth more than the ones he's ended. He knows this, Draven knows this, and they despise themselves for it. Who else will understand other than the weapon and its wielder? Nobody cares how a blaster feels unless it hinders the wielder's chances in a fight.

How many beings know, truly know, what it's like to see the colours filling someone's eyes before they close forever? How many intimately recognize the way mandibles set or lekku twitch when their owners know the end is coming - that the game is over and they've become collateral damage? How many know the pain of pulling the trigger and snapping the lifeline that connects a soul to a body?

Not many. Not many murderers realize their title. They don't end lives, they defeat the enemy. They add to a faceless statistic. They _clean up the streets, ensure the security of the galaxy._

How many have watched watched gazes shift from trusting to betrayed? From confused to hurt? Leading a mark to slaughter is one thing - Cassian's learned to break his persona into breadcrumbs and lay them like bait for a trap. The fondness he has for his recruits is genuine, though. Just as weaponized, obviously, because when he lures people deeper into the fight nobody is deluded about how this story will end.

It doesn't mean he can't feel the glares embedded like vibroblades in his back.

Cassian sees Draven raise his hand, doesn't flinch when it squeezes his shoulder.

He's never told his supervisor exactly how he copes and Draven's never asked. He must know, have an inkling at least, because Cassian keeps to himself unless his prescence is absolutely necessary. The stone hard mask slips over for meetings. There's a switch he flicks and suddenly everyone wants to befriend this passionate young man that listens so attentively and feels their needs so deeply.

He finally raises the caf to his lips. It's gone cold but Cassian drains the mug anyways.

 _Unnecessary waste is the greatest sin._ Something some Festian elder said long ago, most likely about stale rations or burnt out wicks that could be tied together and reused.

Someone said something once. He thinks it was Senator Mothma, maybe Organa. _You have a gift: an affinity to other beings. You feel what they feel and when you let that show they'll do whatever you tell them to._

It had to be Organa, because only he would've been honest enough to say what came next: _but it makes it hard for you to hurt them, because it hurts you too._

It's a sensible observation. Cassian's gifted and cursed with an overabundance of empathy.

All the better if he can serve the greater good with it.

The burden of destroying any life, (all sorts of lives, even evil ones) so carefully crafted from stardust and empty space by the collision of fates threatens to suffocate him. If he kills, the chain of suffering ends. If he kills, someone less equipped won't have to. (He's been destined for this since he was six.) But rationalizing it can only do so much.

The warmth of Draven's hand drops from Cassian's back. "You've checked into medbay, right?" he asks gruffly.

Only now does Cassian actually look at his mentor, the lines around his mouth somehow deeper than usual.

"I did."

"Did they give you anything?"

"Nothing that will affect my next deployment, sir."

Draven's lips press into a hard line. "Even if it does, don't skimp on it. It's a waste of resources if you do."

"Understood, sir."

Draven holds his gaze for a moment longer before rising.

_Nobody cares how a blaster feels unless it hinders the wielder's chances in a fight, or if it's the wielder's favourite model._

"It's an early morning tomorrow, Captain."

The thinnest of smiles breaks through on Cassian's face.

"Understood, sir."

* * *

Cassian claims not to know kindness. He shoots the man who relied on him to find a way out. Somewhere in his brain he thinks _this was the only one._

He claims not to know gentleness. He yanks a girl, this woman, this fighter, away from her father's dying body. Twice, because she can't join them just yet.

He claims not to know healing - he only knows how to hurt. He fells friend and foe with his blaster, he falls into an abyss and snaps the remains of his soul in two. His friends die the way they know best, and he rests long enough for the cleansing waves of bright light wash over him.

Perhaps he's wrong.


	3. aches like the waning moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for @therebelcaptainnetwork rebelcaptain week (yes it's a week late, apologies!) day 3: yearn

Base One hums with late night activity.

Intermittent lights guide Jyn's path down the winding corridors, spilling their hazy glow over the world of natural stone mixed with ferrocrete. Disjointed conversations and the clanging of distant machinery accentuate the eerie aura. This ghostly stillness is only broken by the occasional straggler making their way to ships waiting for deployment. In a couple hours another shuttle will dock in the hangar, and Jyn will board it with the Pathfinders she now call friends.

Her packed bag swings idly in her grasp.

Jyn pauses her trek to hoist the light pack onto her shoulders, letting a lone pilot dressed in her orange flightsuit pass through. She's rewarded with a smile. Jyn gives her a curt nod in return.

She could be resting, snatching some final moments on her bunk before the grueling mission to come. Yet a lingering sense of duty continues to nag at her and she knows leaving this task incomplete will haunt her. 

She slips into the corridor leading into the maintenance bay.

Faint buzzes of hydrospanners and plasma welders gain an earthy tone here in the depths of the temple. They echo against the plethora of droid parts, scrap metal, and the remains of long-lost ships.

Jyn's footsteps ring distinct amidst the unique melody. She moves slowly but with purpose, occasionally stopping to gaze at the sprawling jigsaw puzzle before her. She identifies the outline of a sublight engine and twisted skeletal arm of a B1 battle droid.

She should be awash with the sombreness befitting a galactic dumping ground.  _Here lie the unwanted dregs of the universe, things once needed and loved-_

All waiting for the day when a pair of hands will bring them back into the light, render them useful. The twinkle of sparks against durasteel ring with rusted hope.

Nothing is ever truly worthless in the hands of the Rebellion. Missions are saved by a single piece of junk whittled into a blade or shield. Ships are held together by hope, hard work, and a litany of curses. Troops, like the supplies they carry, are cobbled together from pieces flung across the galaxy. Disheartened citizens, broken families - all beings with jagged edges waiting to fit together into a machine that will end the Empire.

Jyn skims her hand over a plunk droid missing its plating, sweeping up dust on her fingertips.

She's found what she's looking for.

The familiar silhouette is hunched hunched over a work table, threading life into his latest object of frustration, confusion, distraction, relief.

His nest here isn't a surprise.

A towering pile of discarded parts is at his back, and the only entrance sits in his field of vision. The maintenance bay exudes security. For Cassian, it's the closest thing to comfort. The rhythmic sounds of solitary work are a gentle reminder to breathe and exist.

Without the faint background noise, it's frighteningly easy to lose oneself in their work. Jyn doesn't know all of his aliases, but she imagines under the creaking beams holding up the ceiling, they disintegrate. The man at work, here, this man is the closest to Cassian she'll ever get. Quiet, focused, determined.

Trying to distract himself.

The maintenance bay is a haven for someone who doesn't want to think. Just tinker. Here, all problems have a solution. Here, hard work has immediate payoff.

Jyn would like it here if dead droid eyes aren't so unnerving.

Used to walking softly, she slows and sinks weight into her footsteps.

She fumbles with the opening of her bag. The fastener opens with a snap, the noise pulling Cassian out of his thoughts. A solitary desk light shines over his head. The worklight turns the movement of his hands into puppetry and renders the angles of his face with blade-like sharpness.

He glances up, noticing the dust on Jyn's fingerless gloves before he sees the blaster she sets on his desk. Cassian's gaze follows her arm up to her face.

She's met with a question lingering in his eyes. It's framed by a smudge of grease along the ridge of his forehead, presumably from brushing his hair out of his face with grimy fingers. Jyn's gaze darts away, suddenly more invested in the junk surrounding them than the dark locks curling around his ears.

"It's, erm, a replacement," she says, tapping the handle before lifting her hand away to tug at her scarf, suddenly warm. "For the one I lost on Scarif."

Cassian's gaze falls back to the blaster. He picks it up reverently, turning it in his hands. He runs his fingertips over its features, leaving oily fingerprints in his wake.

He can recognize it by touch alone.

A BlasTech A180.

A sibling to the blaster Jyn pilfered out of his bag. It's differentiated by scratches along the barrel, and grip sits oddly in his palm. He runs a thumb along the seams, his slightly chipped nail nicking on the ridge of the switch that shifts it from blaster to rifle configuration. He finds none of the scars of his use (and none of the reminders of his ghosts).

"I had to fix it a little. When I found it the trigger was jammed and the gas canister was faulty so I had to swap them out..."

She's focused on the blaster. Cassian recognizes the expression: listening to an interesting debriefing, keeping watch in the cockpit. She hasn't noticed Cassian looking at her - her gaze would've flickered over to his face. Instead, her expression loosens, the creases of her forehead disappearing as she lists the changes she's made.

"... I know it's not the same, but it's the best I could do. Armory didn't have any, so.-"

Cassian's throat runs dry. A cursory look reminds him he'd finished off his canteen the better part of an hour ago. He can feel Jyn's expectant gaze on him, now, but when he looks up she's wiping at the dust on her gloves.

"I, um, thank you. Thanks, it's... wow... this is lovely." He licks at his lips, wishing for something more heartfelt to materialize on his tongue. "I, uh, didn't expect this... nobody's ever... I gave you that blaster. Well, you took it, but. I mean, I let you take it. I wasn't expecting to get it back."

 "You don't want it."  Jyn's voice is muffled, eyes downcast. Her fingers twitch at her side, curling and uncurling as they make a fist out of thin air. "I understand, I'm sorry-"

Cassian's heart shrieks to a stop. He fights down the curses leaping to his mouth: "No! I mean, that's not what I meant. I, I just, I didn't expect you would feel the need to return it. I'm grateful you thought of me, though. Thank you. _Thank you._ "

Hesitantly, he peers out the corner of his eyes. When Cassian is rewarded with a flash of green, he smiles thinly.

"I think it'll find better use with you," he says softly, picking up the blaster. "I've seen what you can do with it." _It'll keep you safe_ , is what leaps to mind afterwards. He pushes the overly intrusive comment away. _She can take care of herself._

Startled, Jyn steps forward, and Cassian presses the blaster into her hands. A pleasant change from the first exchange.

Her fingers curl around the hilt just as a twitch of a smile unfurls the corners of her mouth.

"Thanks. I'll make good use of it."

Her comm chirps then, a reminder of the impending mission. It's with reluctance that she attends the call.

For a moment Cassian fears the Rebellion's forced her into a danger she doesn't want to face.

He must've let his thoughts slip into his expression. When Jyn tucks her comm away she adds:

"You don't?"

"What?"

Jyn bites back a smile at the creases forming between his brows. "Trust me?"

Cassian blows out the half chuckle as a sigh. "I do. And you know I... appreciate you getting that for me?"

"I do. But I'll make sure it gets back to you."

* * *

His sharp exhale escapes as a hiss through clenched teeth. Cassian's breath has edges as it curls into the chilly air, the ship's scant heating enabling cold to settle against his exposed skin.

"Sorry!"

"It's fine, it wasn't your fault..." Cassian laments the momentary lapse in his concentration that led to the betrayal of his feelings. He's telling the truth, though. Jyn's doing the best she can.

She's hunched over, deft fingers wiping away blood from the laceration creeping across his back. He'd clean it up himself but the vibroblade managed to cut beyond his reach. His back aches at the mere thought of stretching at an unnecessary angle.

He feels her touch falter. Only briefly, but long enough for guilt to coil in his belly.

Cassian remembers the flash of dread awakening the hairs lining the back of his neck. He had enough time to pull Jyn, and the datachip that still sits merrily in the depths of her pockets, to safety. He, though, became the new target. Their contact, lured by the scent of Imperial credits, left a bloody reminder of the dangers they face on Cassian's skin. In return, they'd stowed the body in a waste removal bin, riddled with the marks of thieves instead of rebels.

To pull himself away from the self-awareness trailing in Jyn's wake, Cassian focuses on his breathing and the sting of cleansing wipes.

Jyn prods along his back, wiping away the last of the blood smears, careful not to brush against his skin. Too careful, as if his nerves are wires and he is an explosive. Cassian's grateful for her effort. Even so, he can barely restrain the shiver at even the lightest, most necessary of touches.

 _These are fingers, not blades, nor a blaster,_ he reminds himself. _The touch of a healer, a friend - not foe._

An abrupt snap follows the heels of the familiar crinkle of plastic. Cassian prepares himself for the inevitable sting of bacta and the chilly, wet smear that will follow. Instead, he's surprised by Jyn's voice.

"All cleaned up," she says. "Jus' needs bacta." Concern softens her voice, warming him despite the cold. It's also distorted.

She's speaking around something, Cassian realizes. Not wanting to turn around and torment his back nor startle her, he listens for a hint.

Jyn's trying to tear the medical tape with her teeth.

"I can cut the tape for you."

Her response is a flash of white in the corner of his eyes as she waves the roll of tape. He takes it from her outstretched hand, tears it in one swift motion, and holds out his hand with a single piece flopping from his finger.

Jyn pulls it away, the residual glue tugging at his fingertips, and Cassian falls into the motions three more times. Rip, stick, pass. Wordless, soundless -  save for the tear of the tape, the ship's laboured heating, and the rustle of wool on synthleather when Jyn leans forward to take his offering. 

The silence is filled with feeling instead.

Jyn's fingernails skimming over him when she smooths out the tape, their press leaking through the patch. The sting of the cut fading to an ebb, then disappearing entirely under the mask of bacta's cold comfort. The adhesive tugging lightly at his back. Warm breath ghosting over his skin -

Cassian stiffens, the pace of his heart slowing to a low rumble. _Friend, friend, friend,_ he reminds himself. _Friend, not foe, not interrogator. Friend._

A rush of cold air follows Jyn's sudden movement away from him.

"All done," she announces mostly for her own benefit. She yanks down the back of Cassian's shirt and her view of the plethora of scars, battle wrought and medical, criss-crossing his back. Marks reminding her of the things he'll endure for the Rebellion, marks forever burned into her vision.

Especially the neat lines left by the journey taken by medics to save his legs.

Now memories press the back of her eyes. Cassian's dark hair and unnaturally pale skin bleeding vibrant colours onto a rumpled white slate.  Eyelids parting like a brilliant sunrise framed by heavy lashes. The determined, resigned curl of his lips when his legs buckle under his weight. His hand trembling as he fires a blaster for the first time. The click of his cane on smooth durasteel, the second time he murmured _welcome home,_ the haggard look he wore returning from his first mission since -

"Thanks," Cassian replies. Jyn's gaze is drawn to his face as he zips up his jacket. In this harsh world of cold durasteel and unnatural light, Cassian's gentle voice and bashful smile stand out.

Jyn swallows, throat dry, and busies herself with stashing away supplies back into the medkit. In her hurry, she knocks the bacta wrapper off the bench. It idly floats to the ground. She reaches down, neglecting to notice that Cassian's moved to grab it as well.

Their heads bump together with a dull thud. Startled, Jyn's hand goes slack, missing the wrapper entirely. An expletive escapes her mouth.

"Sorry!"

They both sit up. Jyn brushes her hair off her forehead while Cassian looks bewildered.

"Sorry, I-"

"No, it's fine, I should've-"

This time they stop as soon as they realize they've both reached for the wrapper once again. Cassian takes advantage of Jyn's momentary confusion and snatches it off the floor.

"Here," he says, and presses it into her still outstretched palm.

Jyn's frozen gaze slides between the floor and her hand. "You didn't have to, your back-"

"It's alright. You patched it up well enough."

She makes a fist, crinkling the plastic, and sneaks a glance up at Cassian.

They're close. His hand still hovers over hers, unsure what to make of the situation. She can feel his body heat radiating through his palm until he snatches it away. Arms crossed in his lap, Cassian's eyes are firmly fixed on where the wrapper laid on the floor.

Jyn suddenly stands, intending to toss the wrapper into the disposal chute before putting the medkit back on its hook, but suddenly falters.

The movement catches in Cassian's vision. He raises a hand, ready to catch her. His fingers just graze the glazed synthcloth of her vest. She leans into his palm for a moment before stepping back on her heel.

"Careful. Did I hit your head too hard?"

"No, no, it's fine." Jyn reaches up to touch her forehead, relieved to be spared the embarrassment of a bump. "I just," she chews at her lip, unsure of how to address the amusement mingling with the concern in Cassian's eyes. "Nevermind. I'll be in the cockpit if you need me."

She turns before Cassian can see the embarrassment begin to colour her features, not realizing the same feelings playing across his own.

* * *

Usually bedsheets are a haven, but tonight they're her prison.

Jyn wrestles against them, an endless battle with an omniscient enemy threatening to plunder the air from her lungs. They are fleshy arms around her neck, cuffs on her wrists, boots on her back; twisting, turning, choking.

She is alone, surrounded in a world of plastoid white, burning alive from the inside out. _Alone, alone, alone._ After this bright death, a world of darkness awaits her. Cold, lonely; like the underside of a hatch; the inside of a bunker; the dreary view in a cell.

She suffers. Alone.

As always. 

Drained of the last wisps of fight, Jyn's content to let the sheets ensnare her further. They tangle around her arms, trapping them at her sides. All she's left with is a scream that's lodged in the back of her throat.

It dies as a whisper, a plea she doesn't dare give life to. (A pair of stormtroopers patrol the cell block every ten minutes. Some of Saw's cadre think a Human child is a liability. The scavengers of the night only prey on the weakest.)

She is alone, and loneliness is the only thing she's ever known.

Will ever know.

She will die alone, here, strangled by bedsheets and her own terrors. Jyn is forever denied the glow of friendship, much less the heat of love -

The trap around her dissolves.

Stale air fills her lungs. The uneasy press of sweat is realized on her skin as her senses slowly come back to her.

"Jyn?"

The thumb cupping her forehead feels as real as the dangers threatening her moments prior. "Jyn, it's me."

She blindly reaches out to the source of the voice, trying to make sense of the shapes in the darkness. The voice is his; assuredly so. The rough timbre is his, her name so familiar in his mouth. She grazes over his fingers, the callouses of a sniper, burns from wiring droids and detonators. She trails upwards until her fingers slip around his wrist.

Cassian.

"Jyn, it's alright." He sounds louder -  Cassian's dropped to squat by the side of her bunk, one hand still trapped in her grip. "I'm here. _I'm here."_

The greyish darkness that's settled over them is still too bright for her. She guides herself by hearing alone. The rattle of ammunition beads, a sudden pop of an empty blaster -

"I've got your meds," Cassian says, picking up on Jyn's unease. Her eyes are still shut, but the creases between her furrowed eyebrows have disappeared. Her grip on him loosens, just barely, and he would smile if he wasn't so worried. "I thought they'd last longer," he murmurs. "I should've known, you're tougher than you look."

She latches on to part of the response, cracking one eye open. Her speech is slurred, still delirious from the nightmare.

He arches an eyebrow at her question.

" _'What meds?'_ You have a fever, Jyn," Cassian reminds her. Jyn lets go of him, hand falling across her chest. His throat tightens. "You were having a fever dream. Nightmare, I think." After years of practice his voice doesn't quaver, but his mask isn't deep enough to reach his aching chest.

The image of Jyn teetering on the edge of her bunk still burns.

Cassian doesn't elaborate further, arguably to spare her the shame she'd undoubtedly feel. In all honesty, his heart still hasn't recovered from hearing the fear with which she'd gasped his name. He hopes he'll forget the raw desperation of her urgent calls, the increasing terror with which she'd protested phantom terrors.

 _She's awake now._ He's aware of Jyn keenly following his movements as he presses the pills into her palm. She grudgingly tosses the pills into her mouth, watching as Cassian unhooks a canister from his belt and unscrews the cap.

"Do you want me to hold it for you?"

She stares at him for a long moment, gaze heavy lidded with exhaustion, then slowly nods. It's a striking contrast to her usual self. Though quiet, even exhausted she never lets her guard down.

The lack of awareness tugs at Cassian in a way different from the usual hands of guilt and sorrow. Not sinister, not entirely pleasant, but not something terrible, either. His hands tremble ever so slightly as he holds the lip of the canister to her mouth.

Jyn's hands reach up to cover his as she drinks.

When she sinks back into her pillow Cassian screws the lid of the canister back on. Water sloshes inside as he sets it beside her bed before tucking her in.

He smiles gently at the narrowing of her eyes, knowing full well she'd be protesting at his actions if she was feeling well enough. (She doesn't, a solemn reminder of their current situation. Alone in space, one aflame with fever, and another aflame with - )

"You'll get well soon," he says, more for himself than her.

Tentatively, he presses his fingers to her forehead, easing into the gesture when she sighs contentedly. She's hot to his touch but his hands are usually freezing on the best of days. Cassian gathers that the fever will break soon enough. He could use a temperature gauge but the med kit doesn't have one.

Besides, he doesn't have the heart to leave her alone just yet.

He doesn't realize he's said this all out loud until she shifts under his palm. He pulls his hands away but the look in Jyn's eyes is glazed, not with sickness but curiosity.

He'd been thinking out loud, muttering Festian under his breath. (Slipping into the only language he knows tenderness in.)

"You're cold," she hums. " 's good. Stay." The corners of his mouth tug upwards. He obliges, hunching over to press the back of his hand to her cheek. She leans into his touch. Her cheek is hot, smeared with the rouge of illness. The unnatural heat sends a thrill up his nerves.

"I will. I'm staying right here, until you fall asleep, and I'll be here whenever you need me. _I'm right here."_ Jyn's consciousness slips away in the comfort of his touch and his voice. The words slip away in the fog of her feverish mind. Their meaning remains a mystery, even after the fever breaks and they're back on Base One, but the intent leaves a lasting impression.

_I'm right here. I'm right here, querida, I'm not going anywhere._

* * *

Jyn lowers her arms with a prolonged sigh, shoving her hairpins into her back pocket. Despite her best efforts, her hair remains tousled, refusing to cooperate no matter how long she struggles to tuck it away in her usual loose bun. She could step back into the 'fresher and coax it into behaving with a brush, but the scent of cooking, _real_ cooking, found its way to her in the sonic. Now she can't think of anything else.

As a child she'd fancy herself a predator, stalking through the fields towards their homestead as soon as she heard Mama calling her in for dinner. Today, Jyn merely pads down the corridor barefoot, her stomach's plaintive growls increasing in volume and frequency. The ache of the long mission still saddles her bones. Even if Cassian turns out to be cooking stale rations and tauntaun meat, Jyn has no qualms with scarfing it down in a moment's notice.

The smell of cooking calling to her from the ship's tiny kitchenette tells her it isn't the case. It's accompanied by an unfamiliar, soft sound. Jyn dismisses it as an internal quirk of the ship, but as she draws closer she realizes Cassian's humming.

He's must've heard her arrive, though, because he stops.

By the time she's squeezed around Cassian to take a peek at the night's meal, Jyn's enveloped in the full variety of scents wafting up from the sizzling pan.

"What'cha cooking?"

She can't help but lean in and take a deep whiff, chasing the names lingering on her tongue. Her fingers curl around Cassian's upper arm.

"Careful." Cassian's eyes are on the task at hand, flicking the pan upwards so the menagerie of coloured vegetables and protein tosses up into the air. The scent of durmic and tomo swells as he moves, and Jyn's sure the spices will linger in the kitchenette for the next standard week.

 "Lean in too close," he says, and gently chastises her by touching the handle of his spatula to her nose, "and you'll get a lungful of seared rodian peppers."

Jyn has to pull her smile into a playful frown, twisting her lips into a mock scowl.

"But it smells so _good,_ " she rebukes, lingering on the last word for emphasis. It comes out as more of a groan than a growl, and Cassian chuckles in response.

"I'm almost done, querida," he replies, and Jyn still isn't used to the flutter of the heart at how his voice softens around his mother tongue. That's clearly the reason. Not the endearment itself, because he calls Bey the exact same thing and she's karking _married,_ so, Jyn isn't special.

It sounds nice, regardless.

"It would do no good if you ruined your appetite."

She hums an affirmative, leaning away from the stovetop. He deftly scrapes along the surface of the pan, scooping up the yunip chunks now rendered a crispy brown, glistening with juices. Her stomach growls at the sight, and she seriously wonders if even a cloud of spicy smoke can water down her raucous appetite.

 "Alright."

Jyn tilts her head to get a better view of Cassian's expression, forever endeared by the scrunch of his eyebrows and the curve of his lips. Her bangs fall forward, tangling in front of her eyes. Jyn reaches up to brush them away -

and is pleasantly surprised to find Cassian's hands hovering there instead.

"There," he says, holding the pan in one hand and tucking away Jyn's hair with the other. As the curtain of brown parts, Jyn's first glimpse is of his shy smile. Her gaze slides to the empty pan, the contents of which have been transferred into a pot of boiling stew, steam curling up as fenti beans bubble to the surface. "Can you prep the flatbread for me?"

Jyn nods and he hands her the pan, still smeared with the greasy remains of oil, spices, and fat. "I just have to toast it, right?"

"Exactly," Cassian replies, back turned away from her. Jyn watches him dip a ladle into the large pot, following the distinct lines of his arms showing through the thin sweater rolled up to his elbows. She follows suit, pushing her sleeves up as she rummages in their stores.

They settle into an easy silence. Comfort envelops them as sweetly as the scent of cooking and the bubbling of stew. They're careful not to brush hands or bump elbows, no longer blushing so obviously when it happens.

Still, they haven't bothered to name whatever ties them together. Cassian rather likes it that way. Labels complicate things, and so does moving too quickly - some (Shara) would remark they are moving _too farking slow, Andor,_ _you've been making heart eyes at her since before Hoth at least,_ but they don't know what it's like to be _them_.

 _Being them,_ he thinks, ladle sinking just below the surface under his careful guidance, used to not entail domestic delights such as _cooking._ They were hardly ever assigned the same mission - as an Intelligence agent and a Pathfinder - so even some months ago Cassian would've imagined his current reality to be an effervescent daydream. (If he ever dared to dream - of quiet happiness, yes, but also of Jyn.)

These days, Cassian feels more than willing to dream: to hope, even.

He drips some of the stew onto his palm, tasting it for good measure - _not enough salt_. There is never enough salt, he thinks. He adds some of the elusive spice (as so it's labelled in the stores, but Cassian would protest that classification any day), coughing offhandedly into his shoulder as he's blessed with a whiff of hot steam.

He leans over to get a view of Jyn's handwork. The flatbreads are toasting nicely, and hopefully the mustiness of being stored for so long will have disappeared. Maybe they'll be crispy, even, just like how Mama used to make them.

Cassian's met with another daydream then. Fresh dough under his clumsy, uncalloused fingers; of Mama's voice gentle and understanding in his ear. Cassian reaches up in the abovehead storage, meaning to snag two bowls, and the cool metal under his fingers is a shock to his brain still thinking of soft tortillas.

He's setting the bowls down on the too-small counter, ready to pour out the stew when Jyn suddenly asks: "Cassian, you've been hiding _this_ from me?"

Cassian turns, staring blankly at the container she's pulled out from the cold storage. Condensation clouds the surface. He takes it from her, pulling one sleeve over his fist and wiping the transparisteel clean.

"Jerba cheese?"

"Mhm!" Jyn takes it from him to inspect the expiry date on the bottom before hurriedly unscrewing the lid. The smell of scorched wheat tugs at his senses, and Cassian reaches over to save the flatbread from an untimely demise on the pan. Jyn grimaces.

"Sorry! I just -" She leans over to inspect the carnage. They're still on the right side of crisp, even tantalizing. _Stars,_ she won't be able to wait for much longer.

In the process of studying her meal, she's bumped up against Cassian, and is startled by the brush of his chin against the top of her head is a sudden surprise.

She can feel his breathy chuckle against her shoulder. "It's alright. Hey, maybe we can use some right now-"

"Yes!"

Jyn chops off a healthy portion of the cheese and begins to melt it in the pan, intending to transfer the flatbread back in the pan once most of it has melted.

In the corner of her eye Cassian's begun to scoop the stew into their bowls, and the smell of the cooking tackles her mercilessly. _If only this would melt sooner!_

Lost in thought, it takes her a couple moments to realize Cassian's started humming again. Jyn desperately tries to keep her focus on her work, reaching for the flatbread as she promises to not lose track of time.

 _Karking hells_ Cassian's voice can be so _gentle -_  she knows this, her brain tells her, it was never a fever dream. Suddenly she's wondering if in another universe he might've been a singer. The prospect of Cassian in any form taking to the HoloNet to proclaiming his undying love is so ridiculous Jyn has to choke back a laugh. (It would be fascinating, though. Maybe even sweet.)

But one does not have to take to the stage to be endearing.

Engrossed in his work, Cassian hasn't realized he's let the song in his head slip to his tongue. It's not until, curse the timing, that she has to lean over and grab the serving plate that he remembers she's listening.

The smile on her face is soft, the one in her eyes even softer, and the burning of Cassian's cheeks keeps him from holding her gaze any longer. Silverware chimes when he pulls the drawer open with a clang, rifling through to find two spoons.

He toys with them, unspoken feelings forming a lump in his throat.

One spoon slips from his grasp and he has to lunge to catch it before it falls. Caught, he glances up at Jyn through his eyelashes and finds her lips pressed together in thought.

He swallows.

"Why'd you stop?"

Jyn's eyes are on the cheese, bubbling slightly as it oozes over the flatbread, dripping oil and flavour. Her gaze momentarily flickers to his face, then she reaches for the spatula and slides the bread onto a plate.

"Stop what?"

"Humming."

Jyn's chest grows warm, words faltering on her lips. She bemoans the hole she's dug for herself as she willingly jumps in: "it was nice. I've never heard you hum like that before?"

"Oh."

They're both furiously red now, and Jyn curses internally in some strain of Huttese she swore she'd forgotten. There's nowhere they can eat while avoiding the situation, so Jyn hoists herself up onto the counter, much to Cassian's amusement, and sets her meal in her lap. The stew is clearly too hot for Human consumption but Jyn sticks a spoon in it anyways. She blows on the surface, coaxing out a cloud of steam.

"It's really good," she says around a mouthful of piping hot beans. "Really."

Cassian, who'd taken the more dignified route of leaning against the counter to eat, asks: "The food?"

She'd meant the humming, not the food, but both of them are really good and gods she's _starving but_ Cassian's _looking_ at her in the earnest way that he does when she might actually say something nice and coherent and honest, and her belly is filling with warmth and delight and _karking hells he's such a good cook,_ but now he's ducked away to look at his plate. She's missed the moment and the word _both_ is stuck somewhere between the strands of melted jerba in her throat. She nods, then shakes her head like one of her kriffing sparring students, then sighs and sets her spoon aside.

"You know, if we survive this war, you'd be really good at this whole," she gestures at the kitchen, "living life thing."

"Really?"

And here's a second chance, or maybe Cassian hadn't heard her at all and his brain has short circuited as much as hers and now he's like that astromech that got stuck rolling in circles around the docking bay one time ( _that_ was a hassle), and is repeating the same words over and over again.

For stars' sake she won't mess up this time. She stabs her spoon into her spoon, blows out a durmic- flavoured breath, and replies:

"Really."

* * *

Excited chatter blankets them but they remain silent. A island of solace in a world brimming with excitement; not out of lack of happiness, far from it. Jyn is perfectly delighted to be here, where the ecstatic aura of celebrating rebels buffets them in rolling waves. It warms her from the inside out.

Perhaps some of the heat, even in this summery cold, is from the strong tea she's nursing. More likely it's from Cassian's shoulder rubbing against hers. He's as good as a heater as the drink itself.

The familiar blue parka idly flaps against her back. Unhooked and draped over their shoulders, it envelops them in a nest of shared body heat. They're perched on a log, the rest of the reclaimed tapcaf's tables occupied by locals lounging across the seats.

The music swells - it must be a popular Mirialian tune, for a roar erupts at the first few lyrics. Chairs screech along hastily laid wooden mats, some of them tipping over thanks to inebriation's poor judgment.

Amidst the clinking of glasses being set on tables and the short bursts of laughter as beings around them pair up in couples, Cassian turns to her. The parka slips a little, leaving her exposed to the cold air. It's cold enough she shivers, having lost her jacket in the battle earlier. She snuggles into Cassian's side, seeking refuge.

He wraps the parka back over her, smiling slightly.

"How are you feeling?"

"Good. Tired," she adds, "but... satisfied."

Cassian nods slightly, fingers interlocking over his own tea. "We did good work today. You should be proud." His voice seems to barely graze over her ears, sending a pleasant thrill down her spine that she blames on the cold.

"We never get to see this." After missions both successful and failed, extractions are either rapid or at the end of a long trek. Jyn's never seen the aftermath of a happy ending - only felt the brunt of a sorrowful one. They're stuck in the village till morning. Instead of retreating to the comfort of their bunks, Cassian and Jyn decided to accept the Mirialian rebels' invitations. "It's nice."

It is nice, watching them celebrate from afar. If she focused long enough, she could convince herself that this (her and Cassian and the tipsy rebels and the music) are the entire galaxy. She could, if she didn't look up to the sky and see the star systems still ruled by the Empire.

"For them, the war is over. They've reclaimed their planet. Sure, if the Alliance asks they'll send what they can, but now their people are free."

The air is filled with light, it seems. A distant bonfire, too far for it to warm them, still sheds some of its blazing light on Cassian's features, teasing the ghosts out from under his eyes. "A small victory, but no less sweet. Mirial's seen fighting since the Clone Wars."

"So they really deserve this party," Jyn remarks, and as if on cue, one of the locals climbs up on a table. It teers under her weight, but her broad smile doesn't waver. There's a bottle in her hand, of course, swinging precariously. She hoists it over her head, shouting in the local tongue.

The entire expanse reverberates as the crowd repeats her cheer.

Jyn doesn't need a translation. _To freedom!_

For a fleeting moment she swears she's caught the other woman's eyes - was that a smirk? But she hops off the table to fall into the embrace of another woman, one not wearing the marks of Mirialian culture. She whispers into the table-climber's ear, who leans back with a giggle, swatting the other woman's arm. They seem to whisper for a few more moments before tromping off hand in hand, presumably towards the settlement.

Jyn carefully avoids eye contact with Cassian. He shifts beside her, presumably to watch the dancing that's swept over the revelers.

"When was the last time you danced?"

She turns. He's not looking at her but at the dancers, like she'd guessed. She can't get a read on his thoughts: the question is innocent, a bit curious, but soften by the unwillingness that rises when it comes to the past. This question, however, is veiling as something else. She has an inkling to what it is, and her heart races as the prospect of it.

For now, she keeps her emotions in check, draining her mug with a nonchalant shrug. _It's just to saitate his curiosity._

He's hardly ever this open, not this close to a crowd of twenty, thirty-some odd beings.

 _He must be in a good mood,_ she thinks. And then: _so am I._

Memories surge, leap and compete for her attention. Bodhi twirling her around in the hangar bay after his first flight, his still-new mechanical hand cold in hers. Leia, cheeks reddened by stolen rum, hoping to lessen Hoth's chilly grip on Jyn and linking her arm through hers. Chirrut, staff tapping to its own rhythm as she bounces around his advances, breath heavy in her ears and bare feet leaving sweaty footprints on the training mat.

Firelight, not so different from the one that watches over them now, casting long dancing shadows as Partisians swirl around in the dust. A younger Jyn, sitting on a pile of packs and jackets, watching from the sidelines until her head dropped to her chest. Then Saw's shoulder.

But dancing? _Real_ dancing?

Cassian's eyes are on her now, and his mouth quirks just enough that she knows an apology, a dismissal, sits on his tongue.

"I don't remember," she replies. "I don't know if I ever have, well, maybe Mama must've twirled me around the kitchen but, I don't... know."

Jyn watches Cassian's throat bob, then he finishes off his own drink with a swig.

"You?" she prods.

He shrugs, setting his cup on the ground beside his foot. Jyn follows suit.

"There were dances, on Fest. I remember watching them.... I remembering wanting to dance, and Mama's knees and Papa's shoulders, but not much else. Cold, like this. More snow and ice, though."

Jyn wonders if the tea's been spiked, with all his chatter. Cassian gives her his familiar tight lipped smile, as if he's read her thoughts.

"Just... seeing people dance around a bonfire again, it's... it's not like Imperial parties. They have no life, and what energy is there is fueled by lust or alcohol. It's not.... it's not born of hope and freedom. Not like this."

"The Partisans did this too."

He nods, turning away to watch again, and suddenly Jyn realizes what the look in his eyes is.

Longing.

No wonder he's trying to hide it.

All the tea she's drank seems to freeze inside her. Her hand's sitting on her knee, pinky finger just brushing against Cassian's thigh. Jyn tentatively reaches out to touch his hand, which dangling over his knees as he hunches forward.

"Cassian?"

She's never prepared for when he looks at her.

His glances are mostly casual, and even then she's prompted to feel _something._ (It used to be guilt. From the first moment they locked eyes, it was guilt.) Sometimes, like this, with the fire birthing galaxies in his eyes... she feels as though this moment should be monumental. Revered forever and ever, not passing in a mere, ephemeral second. Her mortal gaze isn't enough to bear witness to this fleeting instant of the universe.

"Do you want to," she starts, then her throat runs dry.

The corners of his mouth turn up. Not a smile, not quite. Something she doesn't have a name for.

"If you want-"

"If _you_ want," he rebuts, and Jyn has the nerve to laugh.

"I don't want to if you don't," is her response. Cassian's is then to rise - then fall back to his seat rapidly.

"You'll freeze," he says, wrapping the coat around her. Jyn scrunches up her face.

 _"You'll_ freeze."

"I'm still wearing a sweater underneath this jacket, and the fire is close enough."

Jyn hums into the parka, the hood's button grazing her lips. She's surrounded with Cassian's lingering body heat, and the parka smells - well, she can pick out a hint of detergent, and there's a smear of grease on the cuff, but it mostly smells like Cassian.

She never thought Humans have distinct _scents_ , but if she'd been blindfolded in an empty room and handed this parka, she'd know it was his instantly.

_Weird._

In her thoughts, she hasn't noticed Cassian standing up again, and the movement of his hand catches her eye.

"Jyn Erso," he starts solemnly, the twinkle of his eyes betraying him. "Will you do me the honour of dancing with me?"

She honest-to-stars _grins._ Like a giddy schoolgirl whose never known war or hunger or abandonment. Like a HoloNet star who spends all her focus on balls and gowns and the fine Imperial man that will bid for her hand in marriage. She grins, perhaps like the girl she might've grown to be, if war hadn't torn their lives apart. A girl who followed her parents' footsteps, chasing the pursuit of endless knowledge, finding love -

_Cassian's still waiting._

Her smile fades a little, tempered by the blood rushing through her veins.

She takes his hand.

By some quirk of fate, the music shifts to a slower, standard beat, accompanied by the sweet voice of a joy-harp. It's well into Mirial's night, and most of the revelers have passed out on whatever will hold them or retreated to shelter. Those remaining stay in pairs, and as the song picks up, they swirl into formation.

"Do you know the Coruscanti three-step dance?" Cassian asks. He's still holding her hand, both of them, and they're standing just in sight of their packs. She shakes her head.

"Do you want me to show you?"

She nods, a slight smirk playing at her lips. "Well, I _did_ accept your invitation."

Cassian chuckles, ducking his head towards his shoulder. "Alright." He starts off by explaining: the cues of the twin-beat, the pattern of the steps; soon he's softly muttering _one-two-three_ under his breath as they move together. His left is her right and his forward is her back, it's a tangle of words but Cassian is careful, and a good teacher. In only four turns she's got the hang of it; moving so fluidly Cassian's stopped counting altogether.

"You must've done this before."

"I haven't."

"You're a natural, then."

She hardly has to think anymore, her focus shifting from keeping her feet on track ( _side, back, forward; left then right)_ to watching Cassian move. He has the poise and elegance suited for the most extravagant of Coruscanti dance halls, and no wonder, because he's infiltrated them all.

The look on his face doesn't fit them, though. Undercover he might wear a polite smile, something with enough curiosity to woo a partner into lowering their guard around the dashing young man that he is. It might be one of focus, or disinterest, or even a loose smile suited for a new officer who'd underestimated the potency of the drink he'd been handed.

But here, with the light of stars raining down on their heads, with the small scrape cutting through Cassian's left eyebrow, with Jyn's boots scuffed and caked in mud, and Cassian's parka hanging from her thin frame, there is no room for the unnatural or the faked.

The music's changed but neither of them mind - they're just swaying now, without a care in the galaxy. Tomorrow is another day, the sunrise heralding another mission, another planet, another star - but tonight; tonight they breathe freely.

They could breathe freely, if only Cassian's heart would behave.

Unsaid words tie knots around Cassian's lungs. They coil and settle in his gut, too afraid to peer out into existence and tread the path of possibility. How could he ever bear to say anything with her practically in his arms? He'd do anything to keep her welcome. If that means keeping the confessions he's aching to let loose under sealed lips - then of course. Her comfort, the hard-earned trust they share, the trust that allows a woman who can eliminate a squadron of troopers with just a truncheon and learned to distrust in anything that moves, to let his hands slip around her torso: all of that is worth more than the desire to free his lungs.

Maybe someday, when the sun rises on a free galaxy.

* * *

His greatest fear is going too far. Doing the wrong thing and pushing her away; speaking too harshly, misreading her intent - he's scared he can't be gentle. Not out of fear of breaking her, but out of fear of hurting her. Cassian's tongue twists around words and hands knot around temptation, and he leaves it all for Jyn to uncover instead. For the first time in his life, _he wants._ But he still can't reach, can't touch, can't feel. He has a goal, she has her rights, he cannot, the Rebellion cannot, his heart cannot afford this. (but then)

She fears she'll gift him a great unkindness. He's seen, experienced, caused, so much hurt. He deserves so much more good than what the galaxy has offered him. Jyn has no idea how to go about fixing it. She's terrified of making him choose, tying him to her, a liability, something he hasn't had since he was a child on Fest. She would hate to be a burden, something standing in the way between him and his life's sole goal. She'd give anything to him if he asks. But he won't. She thinks he doesn't want (her), but then she,

he,

they,

realize

they must heal.

Healing comes in bits and pieces. (There's still a war going on, after all. A war they helped bring into fruition.) It's a gift of a blaster, of a meal. Helping each other through sickness and injury.

It's realizing that they are free to lose (themselves) but have a way out. A tether. 

Each other.

They heal

as teammates,

as friends,

as -

Voices catch on certain words. They mean too much; are unripe fruit waiting for summertime.

Voices are never cold but sometimes distant, searching for warmth once lost. In the light, and in the dark. Breath ghosting over skin, wisps of desire, seeking want; a gasp, a sigh, a wicked cry. 

They've yearned for this, ached for it, all this time. A tether, a piece of hope as strong as kyber, something they can trust won't break in their clutches. That they can't break.

Eventually the darkness will lighten. They will know softness in all its forms: as a nose brushing a cheek, as metal bands around fingers, as breaths under sheets, as bare feet on the seashore.


End file.
